


North Winds

by lachatblanche



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachatblanche/pseuds/lachatblanche
Summary: In the height of winter, Erik leads his men in across the plains of Frankia to seek his revenge against the man who killed his mother.





	North Winds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [widgenstain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/gifts).



> Merry Christmas dearest Widge!

It was the height of winter, a time when men sought to be securely ensconced in their halls, feasting on meat and ale and enjoying the pleasures of their women. This day, however, saw Erik and his men encamped at the base of a hill in Frankia, deep in unfamiliar enemy territory and well over fifty miles away from the nearest hearth or cheering mouth of ale. 

There was a reason that raids were generally not undertaken during winter. Travel was harder, food was scarcer, and hunting was not as profitable as it was during the summer months. The men constantly cursed and rubbed their hands together to fight against the biting cold, and many swore that Hel herself had brought this unholy weather upon them, summoning up the icy chill of her realm to torment the poor souls foolhardy enough to go wandering in such weather.

None of Erik’s men were truly discontented by their lot, however. They had chosen to be here by Erik’s side, to walk his path and share in his glories, and they had never before had cause to regret it. In any case, they were all of them Danes, by choice if not by birth, and Danes did not run from something as trivial as the cold.

Erik himself was no true Dane. He, like so many others of his band, was a product of the Viking raids from decades before, when he and his mother had been taken as slaves from their homeland. He had had a different name back then – one that he almost couldn’t remember now. His captor, Jarl Magnus, had somehow taken a liking to him – not to mention a liking to his mother – and had named him Erik, taking him in as one of his own and raising him as his own child. And so Erik had grown up amongst the people who had once been his captors but soon became his family, and he was for the most part content. In truth, he hardly remembered anything that had happened before the coming of Danes.

He did, however, remember very clearly the moment when Magnus’s great enemy, the feared and ruthless Jarl Shaw, had invaded their lands and, knowing that Erik was watching, had slit his mother’s throat and carelessly left her to bleed out in the snow among the bodies of Jarl Magnus and the rest of his kin.

Young Erik, left alone and abandoned in a field of bodies and blood and fuelled by hate and the desire for vengeance, had made a blood oath that very night. One day, he swore to the gods, Jarl Shaw would fall by his hand and pay the price for the murder of his mother and their people.

It had taken Erik a long time to get to this point: to accrue the skills and the men necessary to make his move against Shaw. Now, at last, he had done all that was needed to succeed in his great endeavour; however, time had worn his patience thin. He tried his best to hold himself back, to summon up the will to last out the winter, but in the end he could not abide the thought of having to stand still for one more season while Shaw grew fatter off the blood of those he had murdered. And so he had grimly set off just as winter approached, and his men had followed.

The wind blew chill across their camp and another round of disgruntled complaints followed. Erik looked around at his warriors – the brave, loyal men and women who had followed him unquestioningly when he had called on them – and he couldn’t find it in himself to regret his decision to leave when he had. His people would not have followed him if they thought his endeavour foolish or if they lacked loyalty. Their presence was proof of their regard for him, something that Erik found that he desired more than he’d expected to. Besides, the trek across Frankia might be harder in the winter, it was true, but attacking in winter also meant that they had the advantage of surprise. Shaw would not be expecting an attack at such a time – if his ego even allowed him to believe that he would be attacked _at all_ – and security would be much lighter than it would be during the warmer months. Tactically, it was a sound decision.

It was a statement that he had told himself several times over the weeks. In truth, only the gods knew how this would end for them all. 

Well, he amended, glancing to his left, perhaps not _just_ the gods.

He stared thoughtfully at the pale, fur-shrouded figure who was sitting quietly by the fire, a little way away from the others. He was one of the newer members of Erik’s band but the cautious respect that the others showed him made it appear that he was second only to Erik himself – and perhaps for good reason. Charles was a _seiðhr_ , a Seer of great power who had the ability to see the threads of fate and look deep into the hearts and souls of men. Quite what he was doing with Erik, a vengeance-fuelled warrior with neither land nor silver, was impossible to say. He only smiled when Erik would ask him, and all he would say was that their paths were joined by the gods and that his place was at Erik’s side.

Erik, for his part, didn’t care to dissuade him of this. Only a fool would dismiss the advantages that came from having a Seer on one’s side.

Not that Charles’s value lay solely in his sorcery, of course. It had not taken Erik long to realise that there was far more to Charles than his unnatural magic. His intelligence, for one, was almost intimidating in its immensity - which, in Erik’s eyes, only made him all the more intriguing.

Erik continued to watch Charles, fascinated despite himself, and was caught - not for the first time - by the arresting sight he made. Charles’s face was painted with ash and blue woad, and his already startling blue eyes looked all the more eerie because of this. The paint served as a mark of identification, a revelation of his powers, but they were also a warning. While Charles could wield a sword and dagger as well as any man in Erik’s camp, it was his words that were feared the most. No Northman of sound mind would risk crossing a _seiðhr_ and end up being on the receiving end of one of their curses. Indeed, Kasidy, a young warrior with flame-kissed hair and a tongue quicker than a snake, frequently swore to any man who would listen that his cousin Knut, having once crossed a witch, had suffered a year of sickness and unceasing bad luck until he had swallowed his pride and thrown himself on his knees before her, begging for mercy.

‘I would simply have cut her throat,’ Wulfrin said in response to the tale, shrugging his thick shoulders.

‘Then the more fool you,’ said Kasidy. ‘For whoever kills a witch is cursed forever.’

‘If I am already cursed then what does it matter?’ Wulfrin asked, but the others decided that it was best not to risk such a thing if it could not be helped. Most of them were still wary of Charles; even Wulfrin, for all his talk, was careful not to incense him too greatly.

Not that Charles was easy to bring to ire. Erik had tried several times in the months they had journeyed together, but Charles was always calm and level-tempered, refusing to be baited. Others could rouse him to temper but Erik, somehow, never could.

Charles was, at that moment, sitting by the fire and murmuring words under his breath, his gaze fixed upon the flames. 

Erik walked over to him and sat by his side. ‘What do you see?’ he asked quietly.

Charles did not answer at once. ‘I see you,’ he said at last, watching as a tongue of fire leapt out and snatched at the air. ‘I always see you.’

Erik forced himself to show no reaction to these words. ‘And what is it that you see happen to me?’

‘I see you succeeding in your quest,’ Charles said solemnly. ‘I see you killing Jarl Shaw.’ He then paused. ‘But know this, Erik – killing Shaw will not bring you peace.’

Erik, who had relaxed at his words, smiled. ‘Peace? I do not look for peace,’ he said, sounding unconcerned. ‘Peace is for land-tillers and children. There is no peace for warriors, I know this. There is only blood.’ He waved the matter away. ‘But never mind that. Tell me – what more do you see?’

Charles sighed and turned his eyes back to the fire. There was a pause. ‘Snowfall.’ There was an immediate chorus of groans and curses from the men, who had been listening to the words of their seiðhrmann. ‘We have escaped the worst thus far, but not for much longer. The day the snow falls is the day we will reach Jarl Shaw.’ He paused and then shook his head. ‘I can tell you no more.’

‘You cannot say how many men Shaw will have?’ asked the shield-maiden, Ororo Stormursdottir. She looked disappointed when Charles shook his head.

‘What about Shaw’s woman, the witch?’ demanded Aligsandir Sommersson. ‘His _völva_ – the White Woman. Will she not protect him?’

‘Her?’ Charles again shook his head, unconcerned. ‘You need not worry about her. Her power does not compare to mine.’

‘Some say that she is a sorceress from Jötunheim,’ Aligsandir persisted, unable to leave the matter be. ‘It is said that she hails from the line of the frost giants.’

‘And it is told that I am of the blood of Freyja herself!’ Charles retorted, his eyes flashing in the fire light. ‘Her own magic flows in my veins. Does that mean nothing to you? Do you doubt my power, Aligsandir Sommersson?’

Aligsandir at once shook his head, holding his hands before him. ‘My apologies, _seiðhrmaðr_ ,’ he said gravely, bowing his head in penitence. ‘I meant no offence.’

Charles settled back, mollified. When he saw Erik looking amused, he smiled wryly. ‘All men have their pride,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Even those touched by the gods.’

‘So it appears.’

‘I am still a man, after all,’ Charles continued. ‘In the end we all have the same needs … the same desires.’ He held Erik’s gaze for a long moment before returning to the fire.

Erik’s jaw tightened. ‘I have but one desire,’ he said, and he too gazed into the red flames. ‘To kill the man that took my mother’s life. To make him pay for what he did.’

‘Hmm.’ Charles nodded at that. After a moment, he asked, ‘How will you do it?’

Erik looked at Charles and raised his eyebrow. ‘You are the Seer,’ he said, his voice almost mocking. ‘Do you not know?’

‘I do not know your intention,’ Charles said calmly. ‘It is very rare that things happen quite how one intends. I would be interested to know what it is that you desire to happen, when the time comes.’

Erik did not speak immediately. ‘I will kill him the way he killed my mother,’ he said at last, staring meditatively into the heart of the fire. ‘The very same way that he slaughtered her in front of my eyes. I will slit his throat in front of his people, in front of his woman, in front of his children if he has any – and he will die with shame, with no sword and no honour.’

Charles looked at him with interest. ‘You would deny him _Valhalla_?’ he asked curiously.

‘I would deny him _everything_ ,’ Erik snarled, the hate that he usually kept so rigidly under control plain upon his face. ‘He does not deserve a place at Odin’s table, Charles. A man who possesses no honour deserves none in return.’

Charles nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As you say.’ He did not speak further.

Erik narrowed his eyes. ‘Why? What have you seen?’ he asked suspiciously.

Charles looked at him in mild surprise. ‘You have never concerned yourself with my visions before,’ he murmured, a glint of challenge in his eyes. ‘I am surprised that you ask after them now.’

Erik glared. ‘You mistake my words for interest,’ he said darkly, shaking his head. ‘I need no vision to tell me of my fate. Keep your mutterings to yourself, _seiðhrmaðr_ – I have no desire to listen to your riddles.’

Charles smiled slyly at him but spoke no further.

Erik glared at him. As he turned away, he saw that his men were all watching them, looking at them with interest, and he scowled.

‘Make ready the tents,’ he barked. ‘And rest well this night – we will have a long way to march, come tomorrow.’

His men complied with only minor grumbling. Erik watched them as they cleared the campsite, making ready to bed down, and then glanced to the side. Charles was watching him still – always watching, as he ever did.

‘The weather will hold?’ Erik asked gruffly, refusing to look him full in the face. He could well understand why some said that it was ill luck to look into the eyes of a _seiðhr_ – it was unnerving, to look into Charles’s eyes and not know how much the man was seeing in return.

Charles studied him and then slowly nodded. ‘It will hold,’ he said quietly. ‘I promise you, the snow will not fall until the day we reach Jarl Shaw.’

Erik nodded once, still not entirely sure whether he believed Charles’s words or not, and then stood up to join his men.

‘Get some sleep,’ he said, looking beyond his men and out onto the dark black plains that surrounded them. ‘You will need it.’

Charles nodded and dipped his head, the movement almost a bow. ‘As you say, Erik,’ he said softly.

Erik stiffly returned his nod, and then turned his thoughts once more to Jarl Shaw.

Soon, he told himself. _Soon._

*****

Three days later, as they crested a hill in southern Frankia, the first of the snows began to fall.

Erik turned to look at Charles.

Charles met his eyes and smiled. ‘Soon, my friend,’ he said, repeating the words that had been thrumming in Erik’s blood ever since that earlier night. ‘Very soon.’

Erik nodded grimly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

They continued the march onward.

*****

When Erik killed Jarl Shaw that night, it was not as he had imagined it.

Shaw was not on his knees, he was not surrounded by an audience of his people, and his _völva_ , the White Witch, had long since fled upon hearing of the attack upon their settlement.

It did not matter, however. It did not matter as it was Erik’s sword that killed Shaw, Erik’s hand that brought him down, and it was Erik’s quest for vengeance that had at last been fulfilled, as he had vowed all those years ago.

He looked up through the sea of bloodied, warring bodies to see Charles standing still in the middle of the battleground, watching him serenely. As he watched, Charles stepped forward, coming closer until he was standing in front of Erik. He reached out a hand and, running his fingers through the blood that covered Erik’s chest – Shaw’s blood, Erik realised – he slowly lifted it up and brought it to his mouth, where he ran it down his tongue.

‘It is done,’ he said, and his lips were red with the blood of their enemy.

It was like a great burden had been lifted from Erik’s shoulders. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It is done.’

*****

‘What shall we do now?’ asked Aligsandir morosely several weeks later, when they were back in their stronghold. ‘Winter will be over soon, and I have no desire to spend the summer months farming my brother’s land. That is women’s work.’

Ravn, a shieldmaiden and one of the best warriors in Erik’s troupe, reached out and struck him hard around the shoulder.

‘Aligsandir is a fool,’ she said calmly as Aligsandir let out a shout of pain. ‘But he is not entirely wrong. Winter will soon be over – what are our plans for when it passes?’

Erik considered. He had been thinking about this question ever since he had killed Jarl Shaw, an action which had quickly brought him fame and prominence among his people. He was truly a warrior of note now, and others would be looking to him, watching him to find out what his next move would be: whether he would choose to follow on from his victory over Shaw by moving against other Jarls or whether he would seek greater fame and fortune by journeying across the sea.

Erik did not yet know where his path would lead. Luckily for him, though, he had someone who did.

He turned to Charles, raising an eyebrow in challenge. ‘Well?’ he asked, folding his arms across his chest. ‘You know our future. What do the gods have in store for us?’

Everyone turned to look at Charles, expectant.

Charles’s eyes glinted and a slow, secret smile dawned on his face. ‘It just so happens that I have of late been hearing many interesting whispers in the wind,’ he murmured, his eyes bright as he looked off into some unseen distance. ‘Whispers about a kingdom to the west full of land and wealth and riches. A kingdom untouched by the raids of our people. A land waiting to be conquered by a warrior worthy of it.’ He met Erik’s eyes and smiled. ‘A land they call Genosha …’

‘Genosha …’ the word was echoed through the hall, the word stirring something deep within the hearts of all that spoke it.

Erik continued to look into Charles’s eyes. Something wordless passed between them both. Then he nodded. ‘Genosha,’ he said, and he smiled.


End file.
